Earth.
For thousands of years humanity has been desperate to give it a better name. Terra. Sol. Gaia. Tellus. Scrambling through ancient languages and mistranslations in the hopes that there will be something more cooler, more dignified to be than an Earthling. None of those have ever truly stuck. They're all just pretend names, nicknames tried on by an indecisive teenager trying to show how they've outgrown the word that they came up with when they were still awestruck by the dirt's ability to become green and delicious. They do not come from a place of sincerity, and so while they might bloom for a time, they fall away like dried moss to reveal the eternal earth underneath.
Earth is surrounded by the wreckage of a battle between minnows. A graveyard of dead satellites swarms overhead, a microscopic echo of the destruction that surrounded the Eater of Worlds in a dream so long ago. Many of them squint down at the ground through glass eyes. Many of them are armed, bellies swollen with the devoured wealth of nations; the flags of the countries they consumed glitter brightly on their pristine white surfaces. In addition to the paranoid, ground-facing machinery is the infrastructure to leave. Massive sets of jaws yawn open like steel crocodiles, waiting to be fed mineral-rich asteroids. Orbital factories wait silently, endless lines of identical robotic arms waiting to be fed the components they need to build new starships. Empty space stations dot the sky, memories of the Tunguska - vast cathedrals of labour and commerce ready to be filled again with vast workforces to build ships to cross the cosmic sea. Orbital elevators rise from the ground below to hurl the bones of that ancient planet into the stars. Long ago, this was where those ancient explorers set their feet before launching into the air.
All silent now, as silent as Pluto. All of that machinery served its purpose. Everyone who wanted to leave has left.
Lights still glitter down below.
Some people stayed behind. All the galaxy before them, all the skies above them, all the promise of the black, all the heavens within reach. All of that infrastructure still there, waiting patiently to be used again. The people down there on those green continents could step out the door at any time.
The Gods are, for once, silent. Their squabbles, their opinions, their rivalries are all quiet here. Everything is quiet here. Everything is -
A golden fire burns on the horizon of the planet. A plume of spectacular light briefly outshines the sun. A whirling return crash of crimson shatters against it. A streak of blue burns through the sky like a toxic comet; drawn as if by a magnet to the glittering detonations. It joins the other lights with a crash of unspeakable violence that parts the clouds and transforms the weather patterns. A battle. Even here. Not serene after all.
With that grim thought in your heads, the Plousios begins to fall. It falls through the halo of debris, impacting chitin, metal, glass and - soft fur? It falls through the atmosphere, dragging a wake of fire behind it. It falls through the clouds, ripping them to ribbons. It falls across an endless ocean, across an island chain, across a long peninsula, across a rolling and endless continent. It falls across a lake, and then a waterfall, and then another, and then another, and then another. In the depths of the pit surrounded by mountains on all sides, the great doors of the Plousios open wide ten of thousand warriors, labourers, servitors and monsters make their way to the doors. They feel the light of a single golden sun wash across their faces and look out at a green and pleasant land that their ancestors hated so much they couldn't wait to leave.
No army comes to meet them. No Gods. Only...
For thousands of years humanity has been desperate to give it a better name. Terra. Sol. Gaia. Tellus. Scrambling through ancient languages and mistranslations in the hopes that there will be something more cooler, more dignified to be than an Earthling. None of those have ever truly stuck. They're all just pretend names, nicknames tried on by an indecisive teenager trying to show how they've outgrown the word that they came up with when they were still awestruck by the dirt's ability to become green and delicious. They do not come from a place of sincerity, and so while they might bloom for a time, they fall away like dried moss to reveal the eternal earth underneath.
Earth is surrounded by the wreckage of a battle between minnows. A graveyard of dead satellites swarms overhead, a microscopic echo of the destruction that surrounded the Eater of Worlds in a dream so long ago. Many of them squint down at the ground through glass eyes. Many of them are armed, bellies swollen with the devoured wealth of nations; the flags of the countries they consumed glitter brightly on their pristine white surfaces. In addition to the paranoid, ground-facing machinery is the infrastructure to leave. Massive sets of jaws yawn open like steel crocodiles, waiting to be fed mineral-rich asteroids. Orbital factories wait silently, endless lines of identical robotic arms waiting to be fed the components they need to build new starships. Empty space stations dot the sky, memories of the Tunguska - vast cathedrals of labour and commerce ready to be filled again with vast workforces to build ships to cross the cosmic sea. Orbital elevators rise from the ground below to hurl the bones of that ancient planet into the stars. Long ago, this was where those ancient explorers set their feet before launching into the air.
All silent now, as silent as Pluto. All of that machinery served its purpose. Everyone who wanted to leave has left.
Lights still glitter down below.
Some people stayed behind. All the galaxy before them, all the skies above them, all the promise of the black, all the heavens within reach. All of that infrastructure still there, waiting patiently to be used again. The people down there on those green continents could step out the door at any time.
The Gods are, for once, silent. Their squabbles, their opinions, their rivalries are all quiet here. Everything is quiet here. Everything is -
A golden fire burns on the horizon of the planet. A plume of spectacular light briefly outshines the sun. A whirling return crash of crimson shatters against it. A streak of blue burns through the sky like a toxic comet; drawn as if by a magnet to the glittering detonations. It joins the other lights with a crash of unspeakable violence that parts the clouds and transforms the weather patterns. A battle. Even here. Not serene after all.
With that grim thought in your heads, the Plousios begins to fall. It falls through the halo of debris, impacting chitin, metal, glass and - soft fur? It falls through the atmosphere, dragging a wake of fire behind it. It falls through the clouds, ripping them to ribbons. It falls across an endless ocean, across an island chain, across a long peninsula, across a rolling and endless continent. It falls across a lake, and then a waterfall, and then another, and then another, and then another. In the depths of the pit surrounded by mountains on all sides, the great doors of the Plousios open wide ten of thousand warriors, labourers, servitors and monsters make their way to the doors. They feel the light of a single golden sun wash across their faces and look out at a green and pleasant land that their ancestors hated so much they couldn't wait to leave.
No army comes to meet them. No Gods. Only...